Saving Katniss
by HaileyBean
Summary: Everyone knows what went through Katniss Everdeen's mind during the 74th Hunger Games. But Peeta Mellark's story is left untold. How did he cope with certain death? And how did he cope with victory? Rated M for what is sure to be awful, gruesome violence.


***DISCLAIMER: _I do not own any of the characters, plot, or quotable content from _The Hunger Games_; they are Suzzane Collins'. I just like to fluff around with them.:)_

_A/N: Hey guys! So... This isn't my first fanfic, but I couldn't get into the email I had for my (very) old account to recover the password, so I had to make a new one (sad day). HOWEVER, this is my first HG fanfic, so be gentle ._. Anyway, reviews are appreciated. I know there are a lot of Peeta's POV Hunger Games, but I wasn't completely satisfied with them (though most are very good); I had pictured many parts quite differently than it seems most people did. So let me know what you think, and if it's absolutely terrible, I won't bother continuing with it. Constructive criticism on style and flow is always appreciated! _

_P.S. I noticed that Suzzane Collins had a LOT of sentence fragments throughout the trilogy, so I tried to stay consistent with her style of writing (repeat, TRIED .) Anyway, you'll see that there are many in mine as well. As painful as it is and as much as I hate it, bear with me as I attempt to recreate her percussive and clever way with words and note that it is fully intentional._

_Enjoy!_

(Peeta's POV)

PART I

"The Tributes"

Chapter 1

I stir from a restless sleep, groggy and already drained of energy though the day hasn't yet begun. I lie still, panting as I notice how the breeze from the open window pulls droplets of sweat across my forehead and neck. It's still dark, but I can already hear my father in the kitchen preparing today's dough for baking. Mixing it, kneading it, rolling it. With a groan, I force my eyes shut, desperate for more sleep to help prepare myself for the emotional tension of the next twelve hours. Try as I might to stop it, though, my mind wanders. It wanders forward twelve hours, to the sqaure. It wanders up to the stage. It wanders all the way to the Capitol. But mostly, it wanders to her.

I feel an unshakable shame that I associate with my fear of the reaping. Being the son of a baker, I have never taken tesserae. At sixteen, my name will be entered only five times. The chances of my being chosen are so remote, I don't really even have a right to be afraid of the possibility of facing the arena... But her? Her name must be entered dozens of times. She's my age, but she's surely taken tesserae enough for three each year since she became eligible for it. Maybe more. I can't imagine how terrified she will be, standing there, holding her breath as the name is drawn for the female tribute. _She won't be scared_, I remember. _She's too strong. Too brave._

I sigh as the pale gray sunrise pours through the window and the scent of the day's first batch of bread curls its way into my nostrils. I give up on sleep and force my muscles, one by one, to lift my body out of bed, deciding to help my father prepare what little he'll be able to bake today. As I trudge into the kitchen, I catch the scent of something other than bread cooking and a slight hissing registers in my ears. I see my father over the stove, preoccupied by whatever it is he's frying. I stand behind him for a moment watching, and the pelt of what was once a squirrel catches my eye.

"You saw her this morning?" I ask and my father starts. He puts his hand over his chest.

"Oh," he says, out of breath. "Peeta. It's just you."

"Yeah," I confirm with a chuckle. "Don't worry, mom's still asleep."

"Good, good," he says distractedly. "Uh, no, it wasn't her, it was her friend. The one that helps her. Said he wanted to take her something special to eat before the reaping so I gave him a loaf." My heart deflates at the mention of them together. Eating their 'special' bread. That my father gave them.

"For just one squirrel?" I ask.

"Well, yeah. Thought I'd be generous. It is the reaping. You never know, could be her today." Another stab in my chest, though the thought of her winning the reaping is far more disturbing than the image of her sharing a piece of bread with Gale.

"Don't say that," I whisper, unable to mask the pain in my voice. He looks over at me with wide eyes. He'd meant to censor his thoughts.

"Sorry, son. Sorry," he says, carefully lifting the seared squirrel from the pan. "Don't worry, though. If it came down to it, she'd fight harder than anyone else in that arena," he assures me, holding out a thigh from the squirrel. I wave it off, declining the offer.

"I don't doubt that," I say quietly as I begin to walk away. I decide it's best to be alone in my embarrassingly fragile condition.

In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the old baking tray that serves as our mirror. Wondering who I am. Wondering if it will be me. Wondering if it will be her. I shake the thought from my mind and run the bath water. I carefully wash the all but permanent layer of flour from my skin and scrub the frosting stains from my hands as I try to clear my head. _She will not win the reaping_, I promise myself. _She can't_. I repeat this in my mind to calm me until I'm done bathing.

With a sigh, I leave the bathroom to dress. Through the window, I catch the unmistakable glimpse of her silken braid swaying across her back. I lean over to watch her as she walks. My heart sinks a little when I see him with her, reminding me of my conversation with my father. They stop at the mayor's house and the mayor's daughter, Madge, opens the door. Madge and Gale seem to argue a bit. _She_ hands over a basket of strawberries and Madge slips what I assume is money into her hand in exchange, but I'm too far away to know for sure. As they turn away from the door to face my house, I pull back the small piece of fabric we use as a curtain over the window, hoping she didn't see me watching her. _How could she?_ I think to myself. _She was looking at Gale._

I sigh and press my fist into the wall, leaning my head into it, wishing Gale weren't in the picture. They've known each other for at least a few years, but their relationship always seemed to be platonic. They'd sell their game together and Gale always had another girl wrapped around him when they weren't. But then... Gale stopped going around with other girls. He started spending more time with her. Soon, they were always side by side. Inseparable. I could see how the way he looked at her had changed. Something was different between them, at least for him, and it left me wondering why the boy that everyone loved had to set his sights on the one girl I've had mine on for nearly my entire life. The only whisper of hope I cling to is the fact that she seems oblivious to the warmth in his eyes when he looks into hers. But I'm not usually the lucky one, and Gale is constantly tripping over himself to talk to her. And, in eleven years, I've never said one word to her.

I stay there like that for a while, letting the pang of jealousy subside. I finish dressing in my thick, collared shirt and black pants. I look back in the mirror a moment, contemplating whether or not I should part my hair, remembering my mother's demand the night before. I decide against it. I walk back into the kitchen to see that any sign of the squirrel's existence has disappeared. My mother, father, and brothers are eating a loaf of bread at the table.

"Don't you look nice," snorts my mother, her eyes trained on my unkempt locks. I sigh. What a happy family we have.

"Good morning to you too, mom," I say exasperatedly as I take my place at the table.

"Better late than never," she retorts. My father hands me a slice of fresh bread, a rarity in our house. Despite the fact that the bread I hold is still hot, my stomach turns at the thought of eating it. Instead, I press it into my hands, hoping my cold heart will absorb some of its warmth. I can feel my mother's eyes on me, so I pick a piece out of the middle and place it on my tongue, letting it dissolve there.

"What's wrong with you?" I hear my mother ask after a few minutes. "You know we can't afford to keep the bread that can be sold. Don't you appreciate it?"

"Of course I do, mom," I reply. "I just-"

"What? You think you'll win the reaping?" she laughs. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about that little Seam girlfriend of yours." I toss my bread back into the basket and excuse myself from the table.

"I am," I mutter as I walk away. Once I'm back in the bedroom, I find myself looking through the window again, watching the sun. Dreading its movement in the sky. Every inch of shadow it casts means one minute closer to the reaping. I wonder how I would cope if her name were to be called out. If she were to stand on the stage, boldly awaiting her slaughter. Would I go to her quarters to bid her goodbye? What would I say? I try to picture the scenario in my mind. I can't imagine how a blunt confession of love would keep her alive in the arena. I struggle to visualize myself surviving as I watch the life drain out of her beautiful gray eyes on live television. _What would I do? _I ask myself, fighting to catch my breath.

Eventually, the time for the reaping does come, and I mechanically lift my feet as I walk with my family to the square before the justice building. I take my place in a sea of sixteen-year-old boys, most of them from the Seam. I scan the girls' crowd, searching for her, and my eyes stop when I see the contrast of her dark hair against pale cloth. She looks extraordinary; the soft blue of her dress compliments her milky skin and her usual braid is wrapped around her head like a halo. _She's perfect,_ I think as I stare. _Too perfect to be here._ Her head turns my way, but I avert my gaze before she can see my eyes trained on her. _Like always,_ I sigh to myself, though I know it was pointless to look away. It was clear she was looking for someone else. She would have never noticed my fixation.

The town clock sounds two long, resonant knolls and my breath catches in my throat as Mayor Undersee approaches the podium. I try to gather my thoughts as he reads the history of Panem, sure that everyone in the districts must have memorized it by now. _It won't be her,_ I promise myself. A small, selfish thought nags at the back of my mind. _It won't be me, either. Maybe, _I think,_ Maybe this year I'll even talk to her. _I know I won't though.

I'm wrenched back into reality when a very drunk Haymitch Abernathy stumbles onto the stage, screaming. I think he's trying to shout something, but who could guess? Everyone around me starts clapping for District Twelve's only living Victor, and I politely join in. He walks over to our escort, Effie Trinket, and practically falls on top of her. She shoves him into his chair disgustedly, the relief emanating from her expression when Mayor Undersee quickly introduces her and ushers her to take his place at the podium. She sighs when she reaches it, adjusting her electric pink hair and flashing a winning smile.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she trills. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She babbles on for a bit, but I'm not listening. I'm staring at _her_. She, of course, is staring at Gale with a worried expression on her face. I feel my brow furrow with concern. _She's so selfless,_ I think. _She's not worried about herself. She's worried about the people she loves. _I stop for a moment and repeat the word in my mind. _Loves_, I think with a shudder, and I know I'm in denial. I've been in denial for a long time. She loves him.

My head snaps forward when I hear Effie wish us all luck. "Ladies first!" she chirps and waddles over to the glass bowl full of girls' names, clearly uncomfortable in her very tall shoes. She reaches to the bottom and plucks a slip of paper from it. I hold my breath and repeat the word _please_ in my mind as she crosses the stage and unfolds the paper. She inhales slowly. She leans toward the microphone. Resonantly, heartlessly, she announces the name.

"Primrose Everdeen!"


End file.
